


Get Thee Behind Me Foul Fiend

by Princip1914



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable fuckbuddies to ineffable husbands, M/M, Nice Crowley (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Sort of I guess?, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), but deliberately ignores it for as long as he can, no explicit genitalia but lots of explicit content, supernatural sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 19:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19362988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914/pseuds/Princip1914
Summary: “I’m not kind, I’m terribly wicked.” Crowley’s face is suddenly very close. Aziraphale gulps a little, wondering when exactly the demon slithered so near.“I’ve never seen you be terribly wicked,” Aziraphale breathes. “Prove it.”Inspired by the wall scene in Ep 2, because there is no way Aziraphale, after 6000 years of "fraternizing," didn't know exactly the reaction he was going to get from Crowley by calling him nice.  Come join me on this wild ride featuring angst, three centuries worth of porn with feelings, and finally a ridiculously sappy post-apocalypse ending!





	Get Thee Behind Me Foul Fiend

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote a nice little ace!ineffable husbands fic and then my brain just decided to follow it up with 5k of porn for a change of pace. If you enjoy, please write me a comment, leave kudos, etc. Edited to say, I have a tumblr now, because I can't stay away: [Come say hi!](https://princip1914.tumblr.com)
> 
> ***As in my other fics, when they "make the effort" the specific form that effort takes is up to you, dear reader. Sex and gender are ineffable, fight me if you disagree. That said, I do describe explicit penetrative sex, so it that's not your thing I'm sorry. If it is, cheers!

The Bentley purrs along the country roads to the dulcet tones of Puccini's La Boheme, with F. Mercury in all the leading roles. Sighing, Crowley turns off the tape and they sit in silence. 

Aziraphale coughs. “Listen, at the convent, I only just meant it as a compliment. Nothing more than that.” 

“Did you?” The corner of Crowley’s mouth quirks up. “Did you really?”

“Yes, well, it really was quite nice of you to--” Aziraphale cuts himself off and adjusts his bowtie. “Well, anyway, I recognize that it was an inappropriate circumstance, and I didn’t mean to start anything untoward…”

“Angel, you’re a terrible liar,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale examines his hands.

Crowley sighs, deep and exhausted. “Don’t worry about it angel. I had honestly forgotten about it already, what with the misplaced antichrist.” 

“Right,” Aziraphale says, unconvinced. 

“Oh look,” Crowley says, pointing out a sign up ahead, in a clear effort to change the topic. “A diner!” 

“Do you think they serve cake?” Aziraphale asks hopefully. 

\---

The first time it happens is in France, the night after Crowley springs him from the Bastille. 

“That was a very kind thing you did for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. He knows he is reviving an old argument, but the crepes really were to die for (although not literally of course, thanks to Crowley) and they have put him in a lovely, indulgent sort of mood, helped along by the truly excellent vintage they are sharing back at Crowley’s hotel. 

“Oh, shut it,” Crowley says irritably. “I’m a demon, I’m not kind.” 

“Oh, you are though, just a little bit,” Aziraphale whispers leaning in with a drunken giggle. 

“Not even a little bit! Not at all!” Crowley pulls off his silly little sunglasses, stares Aziraphale in the face with eyes that are not quite sober. “I’m nowhere close to kind. Not even in the same solar system as kind, me.” 

“Oh, it can just be our secret,” Aziraphale says, “no one has to know”

“We already have a secret, Angel, the Arrange--”

“Hush, don’t say it out loud!” Aziraphale says alarmed. Then hiccups a little. “But you are nice”

“I’m not, I’m terribly wicked.” Crowley’s face is suddenly very close. Aziraphale gulps a little, wondering when exactly the demon slithered so near. 

“I’ve never seen you be terribly wicked,” Aziraphale breathes. “Prove it.” He expects stories from another era. Tales of misdeeds that, likely as not, are not actually as awful as Crowley thinks they are. What he doesn’t expect are Crowley’s lips descending on his. The kiss is firm and a bit sloppy. Their teeth clack together in a way that Aziraphale is sure they aren’t supposed to, although wouldn’t know as there’s nothing for him to compare. Crowley makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and shoots a hand out to grab Aziraphale’s chin, tilting his head to the side. Then Crowley’s forked tongue is in his mouth and their lips are sliding rather than mashing together and Aziraphale forgets to breathe, not that he actually needs to. Crowley’s lips are too hot, the inside of his mouth is hotter. He tastes of smoke and, perhaps inevitably, of apples. Aziraphale can’t get enough, makes a small noise without meaning to as Crowley pulls away. 

“Ssseee,” Crowley says. “Wicked.”

“My dear what are you--” Aziraphale starts

“I’m tempting an angel,” Crowley says. 

“Are you succeeding?” Aziraphale asks, with a boldness he will later ascribe to the several empty bottles lying next to them on the carpet. 

For a brief moment astonishment and another indefinable emotion flit across Crowley’s features, akin to his surprised delight when Aziraphale offered him oysters for the first time. “You tell me,” he breathes. 

“You may,” Aziraphale swallows. “You may have to convince me more thoroughly of your wickedness, foul fiend.” 

“Foul fiend indeed” Crowley hums back, already moving down Aziraphale’s chest, hands skimming the waistband of his breeches, and Aziraphale is suddenly very afraid of what he has started.

“You wouldn’t,” he says.

“I would,” Crowley replies, hovering over the crotch of his breeches, hands on either side of Aziraphale’s hips. “I absolutely would,” he says again. He’s looking Aziraphale full in the face and there’s the usual defiant nonchalance, but also a question in those pale golden eyes. Aziraphale nods, once, unable to say anything and Crowley’s hands immediately begin unbuttoning-- 

Aziraphale draws in a sharp breath and averts his eyes. 

“What is this, see no evil, hear no evil…” Crowley says, and Aziraphale can hear the smirk in his voice, far worse, he can feel it, a breath of air on the part of himself where he most wants Crowley’s lips and not quite human tongue. He thinks he will discorporate if Crowley doesn’t do something soon. “Please,” Aziraphale gasps but Crowley only lets out another tantalizing puff of laughter. 

“You are so very kind to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale finally manages, thinking perhaps this is what Crowley is waiting for. 

“I’m not,” Crowley says immediately, and then his mouth descends. If his mouth was hot on Aziraphale’s lips, it is even hotter here. It should burn, it should not feel heavenly, Aziraphale thinks, shocked. 

“Feels good, doesn’t feel wicked,” Aziraphale groans. 

“Most ssssins don’t” Crowley says, pulling back, then darting his tongue out for another taste, and Aziraphale can think of nothing more. 

Later, when it’s over, Aziraphale lies back on the divan dazed. “Is it always like that?” he asks. 

“How would I know?” Crowley says, carefully casual. 

“Oh, Crowley…” 

“I thought I said shut it, angel,” Crowley snaps, but there’s a pink tinge on his cheeks. He turns to rummage on the floor for his sunglasses, which have made their way under the divan. 

“Can I...erm?” Aziraphale gestures inarticulately to Crowley. 

Crowley still isn’t looking at him. “Better not” 

“Why?”

Crowley shrugs, puts the sunglasses back on with a flourish. “I was tempting you, not the other way around.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says in a small voice. And then something terrible occurs to him. “Sober up,” he says urgently. Crowley looks like he doesn’t want to, but does so anyway furrowing his brow in concentration as Aziraphale does the same. 

Newly sober, they regard each other. Or rather, Aziraphale looks and Crowley’s smoky lenses look back. The rest of Crowley’s face does something complicated. “Ugh,” he says, dropping into a chair and burying his head in hands. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says tremulously. “Crowley, I succumbed to a temptation.”

“No, you didn’t, angel,” Crowley says from between his hands. 

“I did though...will I...will I fall?”

“You won’t fall. It wasn’t a proper temptation,” Crowley says distantly. “I was hardly tempting at all really.” 

“But that makes it worse” Aziraphale says desperately. 

“Nah,” Crowley says to the floor, “look at it like this. Do you like crepes?”

“I...yes?” Aziraphale says uncertainly. “Crowley where are you going with this?”

“And do you like food, and nice clothes, and alcohol?”

“Of course, I mean you live around humans long enough and you pick things up--”

“Exactly,” Crowley says, finally looking up at him. “Not really a sin, more like assimilation. You already enjoy some of the pleasures of the world. What’s one more to add to the list?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Aziraphale says, feeling relieved already.

“Here,” Crowley says and waves a hand brusquely. Instantly Aziraphale’s breeches are put to rights, and the wetness is gone from his thighs. “Like it never happened.” 

“Oh, thank you dear,” Aziraphale breathes. 

“Well, I’ll be off then,” Crowley says, and is out the door before Aziraphale can remind him it’s his hotel room. 

\----

The next time it happens, they are walking down a street in London just after the turn of the 19th century. A runaway cart comes around the corner suddenly, barreling down a hill towards a small child, averted at the last minute by a minor demonic intervention. Aziraphale can’t help himself but to turn to Crowley and say, “Oh my dear what a lovely thing---” and that’s as far as he gets before Crowley shoves him down a side alley and has him up against the wall. Crowley hisses in his face, “I am not lovely, that was not a lovely thing to do, demons don’t--” and Aziraphale is not sure which of them brings their mouths together this time, but it is as good as last time, better even, the fire from Crowley’s lips goes straight to the core of his being and--heaven help him--he is pushing Crowley to his knees right there in the alley. “Show me how wicked you can be,” Aziraphale hears himself say and Crowley whimpers, actually whimpers, before his mouth is occupied with something else. 

\---

Some years later, Aziraphale is ashamed to acknowledge that this thing has become a bit of a routine. On this particular instance, Crowley has miracled a warm blanket for a poor woman sleeping on the street and things have gone the way they usually do. Aziraphale is squirming under Crowley’s very thorough tongue when he puts a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“Crowley,” he gasps, “stop.” 

Crowley raises his head, looks at him with warm, quizzical eyes. 

“Crowley, would you, um,” Aziraphale can feel himself blushing, “um..would it be too presumptuous to ask...could you be...inside?”

“You want that?” Crowley asks, and there’s a new, raw quality in his voice that Aziraphale will have to examine further later. “You actually want that?” 

“I...yes...please.” Aziraphale says. Crowley stares at him. “It would be ever so sinful to want it,” Aziraphale tries. “Only a very wicked demon would offer it.” 

“I...yes, ok” Crowley says, then, “turn over.” 

“What,” Aziraphale exclaims, “not face to face?” 

“Face to face is nice,” Crowley grimaces. “On your stomach, now, or the temptation is off entirely.” Aziraphale scrambles to comply. 

It ought not to feel heavenly, but it does. It ought not to leave him aching, inside and out, feeling the phantom press of Crowley’s chest against his back for days later, wishing despite himself for it to happen again. Aziraphale cannot stop thinking of the way Crowley, for whom these encounters never seemed to have much of an effect before, bit into his shoulder and shuddered inside him, almost as if he couldn’t help himself. Aziraphale cannot stop thinking about the brush of wetness he felt against his neck as if Crowley’s lashes were hung with tears the entire time, the breathless, almost prayerfulway Crowley whispered his name into his nape and the gentleness with which he held him close when it was over. Best not to think of these things, Aziraphale reprimanded himself later. It was, after all, at only a simple pleasure of the flesh, a bit of business, a minor temptation accomplished, a halfhearted attempt at thwarting. It would be silly to think of it as anything more. 

\----

It is only by degrees that Aziraphale allows himself to realize that he is complicit in making this happen. That, in fact, he is actually willing it to happen. Certainly, he only compliments Crowley when he knows the demon really deserves it. He only calls him nice when he actually is nice. But the problem is that Crowley is nice so blessedly often. And it would be rude of Aziraphale not to point it out, wouldn’t it? In fact, it takes until Crowley’s impossible request in the 1860s and subsequent passive aggressive half century nap for Aziraphale to realize just how often he had been willing this thing to happen and how much he missed it now that it was gone. Well, Crowley had said it was a human thing, just like eating crepes or drinking a fine wine, Aziraphale recalled, fussing with his bow tie before a night out at the club. Maybe he ought to try with humans, after all they are the experts. 

In the end, he cannot even get past the kissing stage with any of the humans he tries with. For one thing, they are not filled with Crowley’s fire. Their mouths are not as hot, do not spark with the same dangerous taste of smoke and sweet that Aziraphale craves. Humans also do not have Crowley’s eyes, or the quirk of his lips, or his subtle sense of humor. Worst of all, when Aziraphale leans into a kiss in a quiet corner of his club, or when the conclusion of a dance threatens to become a different kind of dance entirely, he cannot help but feel guilty. Sex with Crowley should make him feel guilty, it is a temptation and a sin after all, consorting with a demon in the worst possible way. Sex with humans well...upstairs tends to have a neutral view of that sort of thing, it isn’t wrong in Heaven’s books. But why does it feel so wrong that Aziraphale, blushing and flustered, backs out right away every time he tries it? He and Crowley are merely business acquaintances. So why, then, does it feel like a betrayal for Aziraphale to indulge in human pleasures while Crowley enjoys the equally human pleasure of sleep? It simply isn’t fair. 

When Crowley finally awakens, he comes straight to the bookshop, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. In his rush to greet him, Aziraphale almost certainly accidentally knocks a nice glass vase from the windowsill and it shatters on the floor. 

“Ooops,” Aziraphale says flushed. “I really liked that vase.” All it takes is one imploring look and Crowley is bending to hand him the vase, perfectly miracled back together.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Aziraphale claps his hands together. “Not wonderfu--” is all Crowley can get out before Aziraphale is on him, pushing him back against the door of the bookshop, gasping into his mouth. Crowley makes an equally needy noise and turns him around and has him right there on the floor in front of the door. Later, Crowley tuts at Aziraphale when he won’t let him heal the rugburn on his palms and knees, but the corners of his mouth go up all the same. 

“Everyone will look at you and know you’ve been taking it from a demon,” Crowley says, reckless, as they are lying on the floor in the afterglow, utterly spent. 

“Indeed, from a very wicked one at that,” Aziraphale says, and rolls over to kiss the corner of Crowley’s mouth. If the expression that steals over Crowley’s face is something that Aziraphale has missed seeing even more than he has missed the feeling of those hellfire kisses in the past fifty years, well, it wouldn’t do to dwell on that, now would it? 

\---

Aziraphale unlocks the door of the bookshop with a wave of his hand, still clutching the bag of books tightly to his chest. “I can’t thank you enough my dear, I really can’t,” he says, standing in the doorway. 

“I said it’s fine” Crowley says. “Don’t mention it.” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth again. 

“Seriously, don’t” Crowley says, and there’s irritation and fondness and maybe a hint of pleading in his voice, so familiar after all these years. 

Aziraphale thinks he knows what Crowley is asking and tries to tell Crowley again what a kind thing he has done, but the words that come out instead are, “Why don’t you come inside, my dear.”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale for a long time, gaze inscrutable behind his black lenses. “Alright,” he says finally. 

They walk in silence to the back room. Crowley loiters in the shadow by the sofa as Aziraphale pulls the blackout shades down and places the books on the desk.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, and trails off. His heart has not stopped fluttering since Crowley handed him the books in the ruined church. He knows what this emotion is, he isn’t a fool, but in the Bentley on the way here, he made a conscious decision not to name it. It just isn’t practical. They are on opposite sides, and anyway, years ago, hadn’t Crowley said what they were doing was merely more human assimilation? If it was not a profound sin, certainly it could not be profound grace either. Nevertheless, it feels dangerous, in a way it hasn’t before, having Crowley here in the book shop now that Aziraphale’s traitorous human heart won’t stop fluttering. Dangerous and wonderful and almost certainly A Bad Idea.

“Angel,” Crowley sighs, sprawling himself out on the couch. “Got something to say?” 

Aziraphale surprises himself by not saying anything at all, just crossing the room and pushing Crowley’s sunglasses up into his hair and kissing him for all he’s worth. Crowley’s arm snakes around Aziraphale’s lower back, holds him there, pressing them chest to chest. It is exquisite and terrifying. All at once, Aziraphale loses his nerve and pulls back. 

“Angel, I--” Crowley starts and whatever he’s about to say, Aziraphale knows he can’t hear it. 

“How marvelously kind it was of you to remember the books,” Aziraphale whispers. The open needy thing that was crawling across Crowley’s face runs and hides, gone as suddenly as a slammed door. 

“I’m not,” Crowley hisses, tracing one long finger up the side of Aziraphale’s face. “Kind.” 

And Aziraphale knows it will be easier for both of them this way, but he cannot help but resent the cold light that replaces whatever else was in Crowley’s eyes before. When they move to do the thing that this dance always leads to, Aziraphale expects Crowley will have him roughly, will try to punish him for doing the right thing for them both. Instead Crowley is exquisitely, achingly gentle. He caresses Aziraphale’s back where his wings ought to be, presses light, hot kisses to the skin there, moves inside him slow and deep. It is maddening. Perhaps, Aziraphale realizes with a start, Crowley has always fucked him like this, and he is only just now noticing for the first time. It makes Aziraphale want to sob, makes him want to beg Crowley to never let this end, makes him want--

“Please,” Aziraphale gasps, reaching blindly behind him to grasp at Crowley’s thigh, “Please. Please let me see you.” Crowley falters, sighs and then carefully withdraws, turns Aziraphale onto his back because he has never said no to Aziraphale, not when he is like this, not ever. Crowley’s sunglasses have fallen over his eyes, but rest of his face is expressive enough. Aziraphale almost regrets asking for this liberty. It is too much. He passes a hand through Crowley’s short cropped hair, whispers, “my dear,” and Crowley shudders helplessly inside him. 

After Crowley leaves for the night, letting himself out the front door and muttering something about making sure the houseplants don’t go soft, Aziraphale thinks back on the way Crowley yearned towards him, on the way Aziraphale himself had helplessly whispered “my dear,” and resolves that they can never play this game again. 

\---

Aziraphale’s resolve holds for years, even though the whole incident with the holy water. If Crowley misses their moments of...more carnal connection...he doesn’t say. But even Aziraphale’s angelic restraint crumbles when faced with the formidable Nanny Ashtaroth. “Do you like it?” Crowley asks, twirling the skirt a bit before he gets a glimpse of Aziraphale’s face. 

“Oh no, absolutely not, out of the question,” Crowley says immediately. So, naturally, Aziraphale makes sure the gardener is as ugly as possible out of what, in a personage who was not an angel, would certainly have been spite. 

But the impending end of the world makes them both reckless and by the end of their first year as godparents, Crowley’s resolve has been eroded to three rules in addition to the unspoken understanding that it always starts with compliments. 1) Never at the Dowling’s house and 2) Never, ever, with Aziraphale dressed as the gardener and 3) Never with Crowley dressed as himself. If this last rule leaves Aziraphale unaccountably sad, well, he tries not to let it show. It’s for the best after all, and he doesn’t want to be ungrateful. 

\---

They are in the Bentley, sitting outside the bookshop after a long and lovely meal at the Ritz after the world didn’t end. Aziraphale feels a bit sleepy and ought to feel sated from the meal, but there’s gnawing hunger inside him that dinner had barely touched. He realizes that he doesn’t want this night to end. Perhaps Crowley feels the same way, as he hasn’t moved or motioned to Aziraphale to get out of the Bentley since they parked several minutes ago. “Crowley dear,” Aziraphale says, turning to look at him, “I told you already how fabulous you were at the airbase, stopping time like that. But I don’t know if I told you how nice you’ve been too. You were so kind to the postman when he came to get the sword, and the bus driver, I did notice that you made sure he was going to get his raise a year early---”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley cuts him off. He doesn’t speak particularly loudly, but it’s the way he says it. He sounds wrecked. “Aziraphale, stop.” Crowley, as far as Aziraphale can tell with the sunglasses on, is looking straight ahead. His hands are clenched white knuckled on the wheel. “We don’t have to do this anymore. I can’tdo this anymore.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, a leaden feeling sinking deep into his stomach. “Oh, I just thought it was something you enjoyed too, I mean maybe not enjoyed but, at least found just a bit pleasurable like the way you feel about cake, but I suppose now you’re not really in..er...Hell’s employ anymore, there’s no reason for any more temptations---”

“Not that,” Crowley cuts him off. “No, don’t be absurd, of course I like…” he stops. “I mean we don’t have to pretend anymore. We don’t need any excuses. We’re on our side...aren’t we?” 

“Excuses?” Aziraphale is puzzled. “It’s not an excuse. You tempt me to lust, Crowley, and I occasionally, only occasionally, mind, give in.” 

“Give in?! Lust!?” Crowley whips his head around to look at Aziraphale and this is worse, far worse than his tight lipped staring straight ahead. 

“What did I say?” Aziraphale asks in a small voice. The evening had been so lovely, he’s not sure where he went wrong. 

“For...ugh..for someone’s sake,” Crowley says, sagging back against the seat and running a hand through his hair. He takes off the sunglasses, tosses them on the dashboard of the Bentley, and fixes his golden eyes on Aziraphale. 

“You know, maybe it’s just like that time in the garden, with the sword and the apple where you did the bad thing and I did the good one,” Crowley’s face twists unpleasantly and Aziraphale feels like the weight in his stomach has fallen out the bottom. “Wouldn’t it be funny if after all this time, if you were the one in lust and I was the one in l--”

“Oh, Crowley, you know it’s not like that,” Aziraphale gasps, wringing his hands. 

“Do I?” Crowley asks, and now he is looking at him, properly. Aziraphale squirms under the weight of his yellow stare. “Aziraphale, we’ve been fucking for three hundred years, but when I try to ask you on a date, you say I’m going too fast! What am I supposed to take from that!” 

“Wait, so you mean all this time--” Aziraphale breaks off and Crowley looks down at his hands wretchedly. 

“A...a bit, yeah” he grimaces like a bad taste is leaving his mouth. “Longer than that even. Don’t make me say it,” he warns. 

“Say what?” Aziraphale asks, innocently enough. 

“You know what.” Crowley snaps. They sit in silence for a moment then Crowley shrugs and makes a move to open the door of the Bentley. “Didn’t you say you have a case of Bordeaux that just aged in? Let’s just have that and forget all about this mess--”

Crowley is stepping out of the car and stands on the curb, waiting. Aziraphale hasn’t moved, stays frozen in his seat. 

“Crowley, I love you” he says, quietly enough that he almost hopes Crowley will choose not to hear him, will continue to prattle on about wines and that everything will be just as it was. But instead he just stares at Aziraphale as if he has suddenly manifested his wings in the middle of Soho where everyone can see. 

“I...you...what?” Crowley says. He’s still holding the door of the car open. 

“I love you.” Aziraphale says a little louder. 

“You do?” Crowley’s voice cracks a bit and Aziraphale rushes out of the car, folds him gently in an embrace right there on the pavement. “I really do,” he says to the snake tattoo by Crowley’s ear. “Forgive me for being so slow and obtuse.” 

“I’m hardly in a position to do much forgiving, now am I?” Crowley sounds awed. 

“Nevertheless,” Aziraphale says at the same time as Crowley says, “But of course you’re forgiven.” 

“Now,” Aziraphale says, suddenly bold, and for the first time in hundreds of years, ready to ask for what he wants. “Will come inside and let me make love to you my dear?”

“I...yes. Absolutely. Yes.” Crowley says fervently and then all at once they are inside the bookshop, upstairs in the spare room where a bed has suddenly manifested itself where no bed was before. Crowley looks a little shaken and Aziraphale realizes he must have performed the miracle to get them up here without even consciously intending it. Crowley recovers a little, snorting when he sees the bedspread which is covered with fresh rose petals. 

“I didn’t do that part. Angel, you are a ridiculous romantic,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. 

“Hmm,” Aziraphale says. He’s already got his hands on Crowley’s body, so dear after all these years, so familiar after a day of wearing it instead of his own. Aziraphale unwraps Crowley slowly, unwilling to miracle away even a single stitch and ruin the moment. Crowley lets him, moving obligingly as Aziraphale asks in order to divest coat, shirt, trousers and pants. When Crowley stands before Aziraphale finally naked, Aziraphale realizes the demon is shaking. “Oh, Crowley,” he says, leaning up to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Is this too much, too soon?” 

“Two thousand years too late,” Crowley rasps out, and then they are kissing again, the way they have countless times before, but there’s a hint of salt and desperation that wasn’t there before, or maybe Aziraphale just hasn’t been paying close enough attention. Aziraphale bears them down onto the bed, sending up a small cloud of rose petals. He runs his hands down Crowley’s sides and Crowley huffs out a quiet longing noise, yearns into Aziraphale’s touch. Aziraphale has always been right. This is heavenly. There’s no other word for it. 

Crowley, who usually takes the lead in these encounters, has, it seems, given it over entirely to Aziraphale, is shivering under his hands and waiting patiently. Love swells up in Aziraphale’s chest as he considers how he wants this to go. “Could I...in you?” he asks timidly. This is something they have not done yet, that Aziraphale had not asked for in the many years they had been playing this game. 

“Anything,” Crowley says against his lips. “You can have anything you want, you can have me any way you want angel.” 

Aziraphale wets his fingers, tries something experimental and Crowley’s eyes grow huge. Aziraphale brushes the thumb of the other hand across Crowley’s cheekbone. Crowley trembles, the emotion on his face unmistakable. 

“How did I miss this?” Aziraphale asks wonderingly. 

Crowley manages a little laugh. “Didn’t want you to see, did I?” he says. “I didn’t think I could bear for you to see how I felt. I thought you knew. I thought you knew and didn’t feel it back.” 

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale whispers, and presses his lips to the corner of Crowley’s mouth, an apology and a promise. 

Aziraphale enters him carefully, gently. He has not done this before, fears he is not doing it right, but if the sounds Crowley makes are anything to go by, he can’t be far off. “Ok?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Absolutely,” Crowley whispers back. “Just--” and he lifts his hips, nudges Aziraphale into a rhythm. 

It’s good, it’s so good. Crowley writhes beneath him, like he’s falling apart, like Aziraphale is the only thing that is holding him together in this world. Aziraphale is amazed to be given this gift, to be able to see Crowley like this, vulnerable, wanting, beautiful. Crowley’s wings fan out into the plane of existence suddenly and beat ineffectually against the sheets as he cries out. Desperate to hear that sound again, Aziraphale thrusts into him harder, feels his own wings emerge and feels some of his essence bleeding into Crowley, like sharing rather than switching bodies. Crowley welcomes him, sends tendrils of himself back. They gasp together. Crowley’s cheeks are wet with tears and Aziraphale, with awe, feels the same tears falling down his own cheeks. “My love,” he whispers, pressing their lips together, “my love.” The air between them is electric. Something white hot builds inside Aziraphale like a roaring tide. He shares it with Crowley, who answers him with flame. Aziraphale does not know how long they stay like this, perhaps a minute, perhaps eternity. Gradually, reluctantly, they both pull back to themselves. Aziraphale is startled to see the bedroom exactly as it was, except that the rose petals are on the ground and the duvet is rumpled. Somehow, he had expected a monumental shift, for the outside world to have disappeared or changed irrevocably. Aziraphale turns to look at Crowley, meets and holds his open gaze. 

“My love,” he brushes a stray white feather out of Crowley’s hair. “Was that everything you wanted?” 

“Aziraphale, it was perfect,” Crowley whispers. 

Aziraphale keeps petting Crowley’s hair. He can’t bring himself to stop but Crowley doesn’t seem to mind. “My dear,” he says carefully, “would you be upset if I were to tell you that you are exquisite? If I were to tell you how good you are to me, how good you are in this world?” 

“I…” Crowley pauses, then a rare genuine smile flits across his face. “I suppose I’ll allow it. Just this once, mind. Go on...”


End file.
